Teeming With Souls
by TealLex
Summary: Connor and Murph are just trying to make it to the CDC in Atlanta. Rated M for language and (probably) gratuitous violence.
1. Chapter 1

Murphy fucking hated that smell. Connor said he couldn't smell it anymore, but Murphy could. He sucked it in with every breath. That smell was everything that had gone wrong wrapped up into one foul odor. It was death, and the MacManus brothers lived with it every day.

Murphy opened the cigarette pack he found in the pocket of one of those things. There was only one left.

"Fuck."

"We'll find more," Connor said. "Always fuckin' do."

Murphy sniffed and placed the pack back in his pocket. He could wait a little while longer.

"We should find somewhere to sleep before dark," he said. Connor pushed through a bit of brush and didn't answer. "The fuck do ya think we are anyway?"

"Somewhere south."

"No shit," Murphy said. "The hell is your fuckin' problem today?"

"We can camp here." Connor started clearing sticks out of a small clearing in the woods. "I'll take first watch."

Murphy started to open his mouth, but a stick cracked nearby, echoing through the trees. Murphy drew the gun off of his hip and clicked the safety off. He turned toward the sound of swishing in the undergrowth.

He could see the eyes first, peeking out of the dark, glossed over with white. Then he heard the groaning. Connor's gun went off with a muted pop, and the thing fell right into a patch of poison ivy. Murphy hesitated, making sure the thing was alone, and then he holstered his gun again. He pulled on a pair of gloves and stepped forward. That smell grew stronger.

This one had been a woman. There was nothing in her pocket other than a long-dead cell phone. He swore and looked back for Connor. He found his brother standing right behind him, gloves on and pennies in his hand. Murphy took them and placed them over her eyes before digging his rosary out of his shirt.

"And shepherds we shall be..." They crossed themselves and had a small moment of silence for whoever the woman had been.

"Best leave her there," Connor said.

"That's fuckin' sick."

"Aye, but they seem to come around less when there's a dead one." He squeezed Murphy's shoulder—a small gesture, but given Connor's mood all day, it was a welcome one that seemed to say everything.

We're still brothers, and I still love you more than anything else in the fucking world even if it's fucking falling apart.

They put the tent up in silence, and Murphy crawled in. He pulled out the last cigarette and handed it to Connor.

"Smoke more than half of it, and I'll fuckin' kick your ass." He zipped the flap and crawled into a tattered sleeping bag, his gun in his hand. He fell asleep wrinkling his nose at the air.

It didn't seem like long before Connor shook him awake. Murphy wiped his eyes and got up, relinquishing the sleeping bag to his brother without a word.

He found the other half of the cigarette next to a half-eaten can of beans. He had to suck down the nicotine before he could even think about eating, and then he had to hate the part of himself that really wanted to stumble on a few of those things tomorrow so he could search them for smokes. He should be hoping for an empty car or an old gas station of something, not a group of...whatever the fuck they were.

The beans were cold and pasty, but he'd had worse. There'd been times in Ireland with nothing but weeks of potatoes grown on dad's farm, and prison food at the Hoag hadn't been all steak and greens. He finished the can quickly and fiddled with the rosary around his neck.

He waited, listening to the sounds of his brother's breathing behind him in the tent. He wished he could crawl in there with him, snuggle up like they used to when they were kids, but he didn't fancy waking up to some half-dead thing tearing them apart. He stood up and stretched, his shoulder muscles pulling taut under his stained black shirt.

A small rustle near the other side of the tent grabbed his attention. He stepped around the canvas slowly, but whatever it was skittered away back into the woods when it heard him coming. He sighed and sat back down near the front flap.

He wondered if things were better in Ireland, if his Ma had made it. Maybe she sat over there watching the news of what was going on in America, hoping her boys were alright. Or maybe shit was just as bad. After all, there weren't exactly planes flying overhead dropping little care packages and shit. He had to think that if the rest of the world was untouched, they'd be lending a hand, but what the fuck did he know?

He drew a knee up and rested on it until dawn.

* * *

It took them five minutes to break camp, and then they were trekking through the woods once more.

"I was thinking about Ireland again," Murphy said.

"She's fuckin' fine."

"How the fuck do you know?"

"Because she's our fuckin' Ma," Connor said. Things fell quiet save their footsteps.

"Ya think we're anywhere near Atlanta?" Murphy asked. "Think the CDC is even still there?"

"We were almost in Georgia when we lost the fuckin' car," Connor said. "Been going the right way."

"How do you know? Got a map you haven't told me 'bout?" Murphy asked. He tried to ruffle Connor's hair, but he pulled away and smacked Murphy on the arm.

"Fuck you. I know shit." Connor smiled for the first time in days...right before Murphy tackled him, sending them tumbling down a small hill.

Murphy had the upper hand at first while the two skidded through leaves. He pinned Connor down, laughing, but it didn't last long. Connor was on top of him, smacking him playfully.

"I've fuckin' got ya, ya little shit," Connor said. Murphy scrunched up his face. There was another playful tussle, and then the ground disappeared.

"Fuck!" Murphy looked down and found Connor's hands wrapped around his ankle. He looked up and found his own hands white-knuckling a tree root.

"Don't you fuckin' let go," Connor said.

"Wouldn't fuckin' dream of it." Murphy looked down again—and it was a long way down—to a tiny beach and a riverbed. He followed the river with his eyes.

"Fuck. I think there's someone down there," Murphy said. Even from here, he could see the person (Was it still a person?) breathing.

"Likely dead."

"Breathin'. But..." Murphy didn't have to finish. But that doesn't mean he's alive.

"Can you pull us back up, brother?"

"Fuck no. Think down's our best bet," Murphy said, and to his surprise, Connor started to laugh.

"Know what we could use right about now?" Connor asked, smirking.

"Don't ya fuckin' even-"

"Some fuckin' rope."

"Goddamn't. Just fuckin' see if you can find a way down. My fuckin' hands are tired."

"Alright, alright. Keep your fuckin' panties on." Connor let go of his ankles, and Murph's head snapped down, making sure...

Connor had hold of some more roots. He lowered himself down a bit more, found a foothold.

"See, not a fuckin' problem," Connor said, and then his foot slipped, and he fell the rest of the way down, his legs slamming into the dirt and buckling under him.

"CONNOR!" Murph scrambled down the side of the cliff, so fast he didn't even know how the fuck he'd done it.

"I'm fuckin' fine," Connor said.

"Ya sure?"

"Been through worse, haven't I?" Connor let Murph help him to his feet.

"We should check on him. Send him on if he's one of them." Murphy jerked his head over toward the body. Connor nodded, his arm resting on Murph's shoulder.

They walked cautiously, knowing that if it was a dead thing, it would react as soon as it realized they were there. They stepped over a crossbow and got a good look at the man lying there in the dirt.

"What the fuck?"

"Holy mother..." Connor looked from the man on the ground to his brother and back to the man. "Christ."


	2. Chapter 2

"Murph, ya ain't got another twin I don't know about, do ya?" Connor asked, his eyes trained on the man on the ground.

"Fuck you." Murph shoved Connor's shoulder. Connor pulled him into a headlock, Murphy's head resting under his armpit.

"Well, fuck, look at him."

"I am fuckin' looking at him," Murphy said, pulling free.

"Like lookin' in a mirror, isn't it?" Connor asked. "A filthy, sleeveless, redneck mirror. Would ya whistle Dixie for me, Murph"

"Will ya shutup?" Murphy said. "We got company anyway."

Connor followed Murphy's eyes to the corpse emerging from a thicket of bushes. It was an ugly one, clad in denim from head to toe.

"Get him before he gets in the water," Connor said. "Looks like the type might have a pack of smokes on him."

"Me? Why don't you fuckin' shoot it?" But Murph already had his gun aimed.

"I got the last one. 'Sides, there's another one comin' up the river there." Connor drew his gun as well. Two muffled shots rang out in unison.

"I'll check 'em. You stay here with...you," Connor said.

"Fuck you."

"Maybe see if you can do somethin' about that arrow in your side, eh Murph?"

Murphy swatted at Connor who ducked and took off wading through the creek. Murphy watched him for a second, praised the Lord above when Connor threw up his hand, gripping a pack of cigs. While Connor got the bodies ready to pray over, Murphy turned his attention back to the person by his feet, kneeling down next to him.

It really was a lot like looking in a mirror. A little older and bloodier, but hell, he even had a mole right where Murphy did. What were the fucking odds of that happening?

"Merle," the man muttered without waking. Murphy tried to get a good look at the arrow. The man had tied it off, meaning it'd been in there before he passed out.

"At least you're not a big pansy walkin' around lookin' like me," Murph muttered, using his knife to cut away the fabric.

"How's it look?" Connor asked, placing a lit cigarette between Murph's lips.

"Just gonna have ta pull it out." Murphy wrapped his fingers around the arrow, and tugged. The resulting hand flying to his arm made his whole body shake.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" And then the man looked Murphy in the eyes. A glimmer of shock passed over his face. "The hell..."

"I'm tryin' ta help," Murphy said, ignoring the reaction. They could worry about dopplegangers and shit later. At least he knew now that bullshit about dying when you meet yours was a lie.

"I don't need nobody's help." The man pushed Murphy's arm away.

"Well, fuck you then. Go on and do it yourself," Murphy said. He stood up and tugged Connor back toward the two dead ones, pulling his rosary out of his shirt while he muttered obscenities.

They said the prayer while the man grunted behind them.

"Who ya prayin to? Obviously ain't nobody there." he asked when they walked back over to him.

"None of your fuckin' business," Murph answered.

"Wanna tell me what the hell you two are doing here. Long way from the motherland, ain't it?"

"We fell," Murphy said, looking back up the cliff.

"Been a lot of that goin' around," he said, screwing up his face as he pulled the neon orange and green fletching through the wound. He exhaled, the breath ragged and edged with pain. "Damn."

"We've got some supplies. Can help you clean it up." Murphy pulled the pack off his shoulders and dug around for bandages and alcohol.

"Got a doctor back at camp. Just got to get there."

"We'll help ya," Murphy said.

"Already told ya, I don't need nobody's help," he said, pushing himself up on his elbows. "And you ain't coming back with me neither."

Murphy was about to open his mouth to tell the guy to go fuck himself, that he probably would have been corpse food if they hadn't been there, but Connor spoke first. And it had to be fucking reasonable-as-fuck Connor too.

"We understand," he said. "Don't want to be steppin' on anybody's toes. I'm Connor by the way. This is my brother, Murphy." Connor put his hand out.

"Daryl." He eyed Connor's hand for a moment and took it, grunting as he stood up.

"Well, Daryl, we'll just be givin' you these bandages and goin' on our way then," Connor said, nodding at Murphy.

"He's already said he doesn't want our help," Murphy said, tossing his cigarette. "Shouldn't give him shit."

"He's right," Daryl said. "You shouldn't be giving stuff to people you don't know. Not anymore." Daryl pulled off his filthy shirt and pressed it against the wound. Connor snatched the bandages out of Murphy's hands.

"Now, you'll only make it worse," Connor said. He tried to tug the shirt out of Daryl's hands, but Daryl shoved him away. Connor stumbled a bit.

"Look here, you riverdancing leprechaun—" Daryl stopped talking when Murphy shoved his gun in his face, the silencer nearly touching his nose. He shook his head. "Gonna shoot me? Go ahead."

Murphy stared at Daryl a minute, blue eyes squinting at identical blue eyes.

"No, I'm not, but if you touch my brother like that again, I'll fuckin' kill ya."

"Tell your brother to keep his damn hands off me and I won't." Daryl turned around before Murphy had even holstered his gun.

* * *

"Well, the bastard's tough. Got to give him that," Connor said after they watched Daryl pull himself up over the top of the cliff.

"Should we just let him go like that?" Murphy said, pulling himself up a little further using a root.

"Fuck no. The state he's in. We've got to follow him and make sure he's alright." Connor reached the top and held his hand out for Murph, hoisting his brother up the rest of the way.

"Bullshit."

"It's the right thing to do, Murph."

"The fuck do you know? He could easily be one of the lost sheep who needs our guidance," Murphy said, patting his gun.

"I just know," Connor said.

"It's just because he looks like me. You feel like you have to protect him or some shit." Murphy lit up another cigarette, blew the smoke in Connor's face. Connor smacked him on the back of the head.

"Just keep your steps light, and make sure we don't lose his trail."

"Keep my steps light?" Murphy said. "The fuck are you on about?"

"I don't fuckin' know. It's covert and shit," Connor answered. Murphy shook his head.

"We're just makin' sure he gets there and then goin' on our own right?"

"Aye."

They followed Daryl's trail, and it was an easy one, cut deep through the leaves from him both limping and dragging his crossbow behind him.

"A farm," Murphy said when they could finally see the house. A pang of nostalgia slithered down into his stomach for his dad's farm in Ireland, and then he was focused on Daryl again, on the men running toward him with weapons.

"Shit, should we...?"

"They're his people. They'll recognize him," Connor said, briefly squeezing Murphy's shoulder. The men lowered their weapons after a moment. "Told ya."

But before the brothers could turn to leave, a gunshot cracked through the air, and Daryl fell to the ground.

"Christ," Connor yelled, taking off through the trees without hesitation.

So much for that doppleganger stuff being bullshit, Murph thought.


	3. Chapter 3

_Credit goes to my Australian, Sammy, for the joke Connor makes after they get Daryl to the house._

* * *

"Oh God. Is he dead?" The blond sprinted across the field, feet pounding the grass. Connor had one arm under Daryl, helping him to his feet before his own people even reacted. It was instinctual, just like with Murphy.

"What the fuck do ya think you're doing?" he asked. "He's alive, but ya very nearly killed him."

"Oh thank God." The blond sighed with relief and almost immediately tensed back up. "Just who the hell are you?"

"That's a very good question, Andrea, but we need to get Daryl up to the house first." The man helped support Daryl's other side, nodded at Connor. "I'm Rick."

"I was kidding," Daryl muttered. "And I told you not to follow me."

Connor ignored the statement. "Connor, and I'll help of course," he said, glancing back at the woods. Murphy took it as a signal and stepped out of the treeline, walking quickly but casually toward him.

"There any more of you?" asked a man with broad shoulders and hair shaved down to the scalp.

"Just the two," Connor said, and then Murphy was beside him and keeping stride. It was the Asian boy who noticed first.

"Guys..."

"Shut it," Murphy said. "Sick of fuckin' hearin' about it already."

"That's just uncanny," Andrea said, following them into the farmhouse. A quick word with the doctor and they had Daryl settled somewhere.

"Goin' outside to smoke. Least I don't think I can in here," Murphy said.

"No ya can't," the old vet, introduced to them as Hershel, said.

"And no ya aren't." Connor put his hand on Murphy's shoulder, and Murphy shook it off, the pack rattling on his back.

"Fuck you."

"I'll ask you watch your language too," Hershel said. "And to put away those guns as soon as you can."

Connor nodded at the old man, and then looked back at his brother. "Need to slow down on 'em or we'll be out before we find more."

"Bulls—Ya just want me in here with him." Murphy stared down at the man on the bed who glared up at him while he tried not to wince at the stitches. At least someone else hated this as much as he fucking did. Murphy turned to walk out, and Connor stopped him again. Murphy waited for something else, another bullshit attempt to keep him inside.

Instead, Connor reached up and touched the side of his head, the same spot where the bullet had grazed Daryl.

"Can ya...can ya feel anythin?" Connor started to laugh, and Murphy shoved him.

"Screw you," Murphy said. Connor started to reach for him, to get him into a headlock, but Rick stepped into the room, a map wadded up in his hand.

"I need you two out while I talk to Daryl, but don't go too far. I'll be talking to you next."

"We'll be outside," Connor said, and he and Murphy headed out of the farmhouse and sat down on the edge of the porch. They took their packs off, setting them down next to the front wall of the house. And then they sat, sharing a cigarette between them.

Murphy thumbed a hole in his jeans. "He's not me. He's not your brother."

Connor sighed. "Think I don't know that, Murph?"

"Maybe I do. Runnin' after him and shit. Makin' me follow his stupid redneck ass through the woods. Now we're at some farm in the middle of nowhere. We're supposed to be in Atlanta, remember? Not playin' the fuckin' Red Cross."

"Did you say Atlanta?"

Murphy looked up. Rick stood behind them, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"Aye," Connor said, snuffing out the cigarette butt and dropping it into the weeds next to the porch. "We were headed to the CDC."

"Mhmm," Rick said, sitting down next to Murphy. "Hate to break it to you, but the CDC is gone."

"Ya sure?" Murphy asked. Great. That was all Connor needed—another fucking excuse to hang around here.

"We all nearly died when the place went up," Rick said. "I'd say I'm pretty sure."

"We'll just need a new plan then," Murphy said, turning to look at his brother. "Plenty of other places we could go."

"Think we'll be stayin' put here tonight." Connor looked at Rick. "That is if it's alright with you. We've got our own shit. Don't want to cause any trouble."

"I think we should take off. Camp in the woods again." Murphy looked back at his pack. If he grabbed it and started walking, would Connor follow? Of course he would. How could he even fucking think that? Connor must have sensed what he was thinking. He reached out and clapped his hand down on Murphy's shoulder, gave him a simple glance. But it was enough.

"Connor's right," Rick said. "It's getting late, and you'd be a lot better off here with us. Didn't catch your name yet by the way."

"It's Murphy."

"Told you, didn't I?" The man with the buzzcut stepped around the corner of the house where he'd clearly been listening.

"Yeah, Shane, you did."

"Told him what?" Connor asked.

"Told him that we've got ourselves a couple of saints here," Shane said. "How many police drawings did I see of you two? We got 'em even down here in Georgia. Something about Daryl always felt familiar. Guess I know why now."

"Is that gonna be a problem?" Murphy tensed up a bit, ready to jump and defend his brother at a moment's notice.

Shane started to laugh. "Hell no. Always thought you two was right." He looked at Rick. "Besides, we need some more real men around here."

Things fell silent for a second, Rick looking at Shane, his jaw taut. Murphy could tell there was something wrong there—bad blood in what had once been a strong friendship. Guess the dead getting up and walking around can put some real strain on a relationship.

"Look, I don't know if I condone what you two did," Rick said. He shook his head. "You are still about not harming the innocent, right?"

Connor smiled and clapped his hand down on Murphy's shoulder. "Fuck. Haven't killed anythin' actually livin' in months, eh Murph?"

"All I see are a couple of men who actually know how to handle a gun," Shane said. He smiled and shook his head. "The saints, man. Can't believe it."

"You'll need to put those up somewhere," Rick said, pointing at the guns holstered on their sides. Shane's face twitched at the suggestion.

"Aye, the old man told us as much," Connor said.

"Then just set up camp wherever you're comfortable." Rick pointed toward the campsite. "Don't give me a reason to regret this."

"Be on our way soon enough," Murphy said, fiddling with the cigarette pack and wishing he could take another. Connor was right though. He needed to slow down. But life was pretty fucking stressful lately, and the cigarettes, well, they also seemed to numb his ability to smell the stench of the dead in the air.

"Now," Connor said, "I'm betting that little private campground there belongs to Daryl." He pointed at the tent far away from the others.

"You'd be right," Rick said.

"We're not sleepin' near him," Murphy said. "You'll be sleepin' alone."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Murph. I'm just gettin' the lay of the land here." Connor ruffled his hair, and Murphy smacked his arm before standing up and grabbing his pack. He walked toward the tent city, determined to get there before Connor. He would be picking the fucking spot, ensuring they were as far away from Daryl's site as possible. Fuck, if he never saw that man again, it would be too soon.

He sat his things down a little ways from the main group, on the side opposite of Daryl's camp.

"This is a nice spot, Murph," Connor said. Murphy looked at him, ready for a sarcastic remark or a smirk, but Connor just opened his backpack and started to pull out tent stakes. Murphy paused to look out across the fields, at the vast expanse of farmland. He noticed Connor looking too.

"Do ya miss him?"

"Who? Da? Course I do." Connor helped Murphy spread out the corners of the tent. "But he went down fighting. All any of us can hope for, really. Especially now."

They had the tent up in minutes with all of the efficiency of two men who spent every night in one. They took their guns off and put them in the corner, both feeling a little naked without them.

"Guess we don't need to take turns keepin' watch tonight," Connor said. "We could actually get a full night in for a change."

"We've only got the one sleepin' bag." Murphy took it off the back of his pack and laid it down inside the tent. Connor pulled out his tattered pea coat from the bottom of his bag and laid it out on the ground.

"Give me yours."

Murphy dug his out and Connor laid it down too. The two of them looked at the sleeping bag and the little makeshift pallet of coats, then at each other.

There was a brief moment, a stare-down, where they looked into each others' eyes. Then Connor squinted and cocked his head, smirking. Murphy lunged for the sleeping bag.

"Oh no ya don't. Older brother gets that privilege." Connor grabbed him around the middle and pulled him away, stepping around him in the process.

"Like hell ya are." Murphy pushed Connor toward the coats, smiling. "Ya heard what Ma said. Makes me older."

"Ya fuckin' wish," Connor said, tackling Murphy and sending them rolling into the wall of the tent. The whole structure shook. "Do we need to see if blondie out there will take a little look for us?"

"Wouldn't be nothin' little about it." Murphy got the upper hand and pinned Connor face-down to the floor of the tent, smacking him playfully on the back a few times. "I'll be takin' the sleepin' bag then."

"Go on, then," Connor said, laughing. Murphy stood up.

"Givin' up that easy?"

"Want to go back up to the house before dark," Connor said. "We'll trade out tomorrow."

"Are ya fuckin' serious?" Murphy spat. "He doesn't need or want you up there. Motherfucker doesn't even deserve you carin' about him."

"I won't be long," Connor said, stepping out of the tent.

"Fuck you," Murphy called after him, but Connor kept walking. Murphy zipped the tent up and crawled inside of the sleeping bag. Christ, he wanted a fucking smoke. He could feel the pack in his back pocket. Maybe he'd smoke 'em all before Connor got back. Yeah, then Connor would fuckin' kill him.

It was dark inside, dusk settling into night. He left the sleeping bag half-unzipped, letting a little air filter in. It was still too hot to cocoon inside of it.

He thought of Connor up there in the farmhouse, fretting over a stranger just because he had his fucking face. He half-wished the motherfucker would have just died, and then he shook the thought away as a terrible one before curling up.

Normally, it would be too early to for him to even consider sleeping, but nights of only half-resting had caught up with him, and even though he tried to wait for Connor to come back, his eyelids wouldn't cooperate. He was asleep within minutes, his jealousy fading away into dreams, nightmares.


End file.
